


A Sultry Side

by witling



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dancing, Drunkenness, Hedonism, Hot Weather, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witling/pseuds/witling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing like watching a man like Arthur come apart in the heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sultry Side

**Author's Note:**

> These are the kinds of things that bus commutes produce.

The job was in Marrakesh. Eames has a long-standing grudge against Marrakesh, and in particular against the proprietor of the Grand Casino la Mamounia. On the other hand, it is in Africa, which makes it convenient for him. And it is the sort of place that some people--generally stupid ones--consider sultry. Arthur does not, as far as Eames knows, have a sultry side. Arthur has a dull side and an irritable side and a thorough side. In between he has slivers of wit and humor, like the lines of silver solder between panes of glass. Arthur is not sultry, but he’s something better. He’s neat, well-groomed, particular. There’s nothing like watching a man like Arthur come apart in the heat.

Eames--seated at the back of a plastic bar booth, underneath a moribund ceiling fan, in front of a scatter of plastic cups and tipped-over beer bottles, water bottles, bottle caps, loose change and notes--has a good view of Arthur now. Arthur is on the other side of the room, at the makeshift bar. He’s leaning forward with both elbows on the bar top, the toe of his right shoe propped against a chair leg. He’s got a beer in one hand. His sleeves are rolled up. His forearms are browner than usual, courtesy of the Marrakesh sun. He’s talking to Yusuf and the bartender in slightly mangled French, about something Eames can’t make out. 

They were in Marrakesh for fifteen days. Fifteen long, grueling, watchful, overheated days that are now over, behind them. The job’s done, they’re all the richer. They’re in Casablanca for one night before they catch their various planes and ferries and for all Eames knows, camels, to their various destinations. Dispersal, one of the fundamental rules of the business. A rule even Eames follows, in the interest of keeping all his parts where they belong. 

But every once in a while it’s worth the risk to bend that rule. He knows and likes everyone on this team, and they all like each other, which is so rare it’s...well, it’s rare. Once or twice on this job Eames has nursed tiny, private notions about setting up as a more permanent type of team. Why not work only with the people you like? He knows why not--too risky, too traceable--but still. It’s a relief to be on a job where nobody’s backbiting, sniping, double-dealing. They all feel it. It’s why they’re here, instead of dispersed already. Which would be the smarter thing to do.

The bar is tiny, just a cinderblock building with a radio playing loud, tinny American pop. The bartender changed it from African rap when they walked in, a resigned expression on his face. They’re five. Arthur and Yusuf. Filip, a timid, hard-drinking Swede who once built Chartres Cathedral, or a reasonable facsimile, in a single afternoon. And Callie, Californian by way of Venezuela, with a blinding white smile and legs for days, her hair a mass of bleach-blonde curls. You had to look closely to see the gold tooth at the edge of the smile. The original was knocked out in a bar fight, she told him once. Then, another time: kicked out by a bull in Pamplona. And again: she pulled it herself on a drunken dare. He forgets the other stories.

Now she slides into the booth beside him, her firm thigh and shoulder against his. She has three brimming shot glasses balanced in her hands. One she puts in front of him. The other two she keeps.

“Nice view,” she says, nodding at Arthur. Eames smiles slightly, picking up the glass. “You should ask him to dance.”

He drinks the liquor, rolls its heat around in his already-hot mouth, swallows. Smiles at her as he sets the glass down. She’s sweat-sheened, high-colored. They all are. Flushed and happy, lit up in more ways than one. She downs one shot and slams the glass down on the table, exhaling hard.

“I wouldn’t mind breaking off a piece of that,” she says, when she can speak. He laughs, and she leans into him, goosing his ribs. “Oh lord god,” she says, looking back at Arthur. “Would I ever.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he says. 

“When have you ever been afraid of danger, Eames?”

“You must have me confused with someone else. I fear all kinds of things.”

“I don’t,” she says, sitting up. “Well, at least I don’t fear getting shot down.”

“Oh.” He finds a half-finished beer on the table and takes a cooling sip. “No fear of that.” 

Callie looks at him for a moment, then turns away and does her second shot. She wipes her mouth with her forearm, and when she can talk again, she says, “You dog.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t believe you anyway.” She looks across the room, to where Arthur is still standing, turned now toward the little television behind the bar, watching the grainy, skipping football game. “Arthur wouldn’t do you.”

“I’m offended.”

“Please.” She stretches, golden muscles flexing. “My god, I’m glad that job is over.”

“Turned out all right, though.”

“I’m going to get one of those four-hand massages. But I’m going to order a double. Eight hands. All massaging.” She turns to him. “What are you going to do?”

“This and that.” He drinks more beer, watching Arthur over the bottle.

“Oh for god’s sake.” Callie drags herself out of the booth. “I hope you do fuck him. You’re no fun when you’re like this.”

He watches her sway across the room to join Filip and his bottle of rum at another table. Filip, Eames notices, has almost emptied the thing, but looks no drunker than when they came in.

Some time later, the music’s up to ear-splitting, and the television set has migrated to the bar. The place is packed with people, all watching the football game. Eames, pushing through the crowd to get another beer, finds himself face to face with Arthur. Or face to side, really. Arthur’s turned toward the television like everyone else, watching with a smile. His cheeks are red, there’s sweat on his brow. He’s opened his dress shirt to show the clean white undershirt beneath. God knows where his tie has gone. God knows why he even wears a tie in Morocco.

“Hello,” Eames says, putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to get his attention. Arthur turns, sees him, and smiles more broadly in recognition. Eames notes the little-seen dimples. 

“Hey.” Arthur laughs. “It’s getting kind of intense in here.”

Eames tries to answer, but a free kick misses the goal and the crowd erupts in shouting. He leans close and puts his mouth next to Arthur’s ear. “We could go somewhere quieter.”

Arthur nods and looks around, obviously trying to find Yusuf and Callie and Filip. Eames says, “I think they’re all right without us.” Arthur doesn’t seem to hear this at first--he keeps casing the room. Eames waits. After a couple of seconds--Arthur really is fairly drunk, Eames reminds himself--the penny drops. Arthur’s head snaps back around, and he gives Eames an incredulous, open-mouthed look. Then he laughs.

“Jesus,” he says, “You’re kidding me.”

“Somewhere air-conditioned,” Eames says, leaning close again although he doesn’t really have to. No one is paying attention to them. “It’s blistering in here.”

Arthur’s still smiling, staring at him, as if he’s just recognized Eames after a long absence. “You want to, what, just walk? Without telling anyone?”

“We could tell them,” Eames says, in a considering tone. “If you want.”

“Jesus.” Arthur shakes his head and looks back at the television. Eames stands waiting. He can see that Arthur’s not really watching the game. Poor Arthur, he thinks, watching the muscles move in Arthur’s jaw. Watching his face go internal, thinking. Poor, lovely Arthur. So easy to read sometimes.

“Just for a breath of fresh air,” Eames says, in a completely rational tone. “A walk in the park.”

“Sounds like a good way to get thrown in prison.”

“This is Casablanca, not Mombasa. Much more cosmopolitan.” 

“No thanks.” Arthur’s tightened up a bit. He’s frowning, eyes front. Eames stands there a moment longer, leaving it open. Arthur doesn’t look at him.

Callie and Filip are still at their table, surrounded now by the packed crowd of standing people. There’s a new bottle of rum at Filip’s elbow, a half-finished plate of lamb and couscous by Callie. She looks up as Eames makes his way, apologizing, through the crowd. 

“No dice?” she asks, kicking a chair his way. He sinks into it, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” Filip asks.

“Eames is unlucky in love,” Callie says. “Give him a drink.”

They drink to love, then to luck. Then to success in business and lamb kebabs. Things start to get a little wobbly. “To American top forties!” Callie says, raising her glass. By the time they’re drinking to lingonberry jam and high thread-count sheets, Eames is feeling much better.

The match ends and the television switches to a grainy Algerian dance program. Someone cranks the music even higher, Arabic pop this time. People start to dance. Yusuf appears through the crowd, Arthur in tow. They’re both sweaty and disheveled.

“Someone protect Arthur’s virtue,” Yusuf shouts over the music, pushing Arthur toward the table. “These ladies will eat him alive!”

Callie stands up, pulls Arthur over, and plants him in her chair. Then she grabs Eames’s arm. “Come dance,” she shouts into his ear. He shakes his head, grinning, afraid he’ll pitch over if he tries. She digs her nails in and hauls him up, laughing and wincing. “Come on. Dance with me. Yusuf, you too.” She latches onto him with her free hand and plunges into the crowd.

It’s ridiculous. There’s hardly any room to move, but they squeeze in anyway and the motion of the crowd takes over. The music is fast and thumping, vibrating Eames’s eardrums and ribcage. Callie grinds against him, grinning, sweat dripping from her nose. He gets hold of her hip, pulls her in, and she says in his ear: “You made a quarter million dollars today, Mr. Eames.”

For a moment they stare at each other in delight--then she turns away and starts seducing poor Yusuf, who should know better. Eames finds himself dancing with a woman with short shell-bedecked braids, then with her friend. They laugh at him and he obliges, dancing like an Englishman. When he turns around again, Filip is there, bouncing intensely like a pogo stick. Beside him is Arthur, laughing and not so much dancing as letting himself be shoved around. Which is Arthur all over. 

It’s easy, in the thick of it, to end up beside Arthur, to be pressed close to him. Arthur doesn’t stop smiling, doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems amused. When Eames slides a hand around him and presses a palm to his lower back, he doesn’t flinch. He does raise his eyebrows. Eames looks innocent. Arthur shakes his head, still smiling.

Filip bounces into them full-force, and Callie grabs Arthur’s hands, pulling him into a tango clinch. She says something into his ear that makes him close his eyes and laugh. Yusuf appears, sweat-drenched, a bottle of water in one hand and a kebab in the other. They pass the bottle around, sharing with one or two other thirsty people. They eat the kebab, still dancing. The music goes on and on, beating the simmering air to a pulp.

Later, Eames remembers things in brief flashes: a woman’s yellow dress, spinning out around her burnished brown legs. The ceiling, cobwebbed and dirty. The door standing open to the night, a blue-black rectangle, bugs flitting. People passing in and out, laughing and talking. Filip with cherries in his pale swedish cheeks, Yusuf squeezing sweat from his hair. Arthur, grinning and graceful, his dress shirt hanging open, his undershirt clinging to his skin. The faintest shadow of dark hair visible through the fabric, on his belly just above his trousers. The shine of his neck and cheekbone, his skin flushed and tanned. His eyes catching Eames’s in the mix, and holding for just a second. Saying without speaking, _this is ridiculous. This is so fucking ridiculous_. And Eames, knowing exactly what he was saying, exactly what he meant, lurching forward to catch him around the waist and spin him around, hip to hip. Knowing that Arthur would allow it, because for fuck’s sake, why not?

Eames remembers that for a long time afterward. That moment, that whole night. It’s one of the things he thinks about, from time to time, when he’s in a bad spot. He considers it a little gift from the universe. A little glimpse-- _here, see? see what it can be like?_ \--of a world just out of reach.

 

The next morning, he waits with Callie at the car rental agency. Arthur has already caught his early morning flight back to America. Yusuf is on a train to Tunisia. Filip is staying on a day or two, for mysterious Scandinavian reasons. 

Eamee sits in the plastic chair in the rental agency, his eyes closed behind sunglasses. Callie sits next to him, folded over with her head on his arm. They’re both zombies, parched and sleepy. Someone stepped on Callie’s foot in the mayhem of the bar, and she thinks a toe is broken. It’s at least impressively purple.

“I’m sorry about Arthur,” she says after a while, patting him on the hand. 

He gives an infinitessimal shrug. “Another time, maybe.”

“Did you really fuck him?”

“A gentleman never tells.”

Callie sighs, massaging her temples. “I feel like hammered shit.”

He digs an aspirin out of his pocket and hands it over. She dry-swallows it. “Thanks.”

The man behind the rental desk is talking low, angry Spanish into the phone. Eames can hear enough of it to know that their car is not going to be ready anytime soon. He lets his head fall back against the wall, ready to sleep.

“Shit,” Callie says into his sleeve. She’s picked up the conversation too. 

They’re quiet, long enough that Eames is almost asleep when she says, “You guys would be really good together, I think.”

And he’s not really awake, so he’s not really liable, when he replies, “Yeah, we are.”


End file.
